What I’d remembered as a quite spontaneous and free-form day-and-night grope-a-thon—sprawled, pulsing, inelegant bodies rich in scars, tattoos and cellulite, spilled wine, cigarettes stubbed in smeared plates of soft cheese and onion dip, weird fricative sounds and snorts of laughter—seemed to have hardened into precious ritual, a scene as glossy and predictable as silicone.